


the weight of the dead

by Ancalime



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancalime/pseuds/Ancalime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the battle of Ostagar, mostly some indefinite time before Arl Eamon's recovery, but covers the end. Pairing is mostly incidental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the weight of the dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wagontrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagontrain/gifts).



It had been three weeks. Three weeks, and still, by the time they returned to Ostagar, the dead still rotted in the woods and throughout the ruins, and darkspawn still held the area in a chokehold.

When the gold armor first came toward them in the dim evening, Alistair stumbled back in shock. _Cailan?_ But it wasn't Cailan, of course, just some emissary that had claimed the bloody, dented chestplate and pauldrons for his own. He recovered just in time to land the killing blow, and the shock of it rang up his arm.

They found the gloves in the belly of a small drake – "small" in this case meaning "longer than a ballista with a wingspan perhaps three times Sten's height." The spelled, worked metals and leather had held up remarkably well to the dragon's digestive juices.

The boots were on a hurlock that had claimed the Tower of Ishal. They fought through his band, leaving fresh bodies strewn over the floors that were still stained from the previous battle, until at the top of the tower they defeated him and stripped the king's boots from his body. The walls of the tower were half-ruined here at the top floor, the stones they walked on gouged as if with great talons; scorched far beyond what could be explained by the beacon's fire. Alistair thought about what Eirian had told him, how Morrigan's story of their rescue was that Flemeth had turned into a great bird and carried the two of them off. _Some bird_, Alistair thought.

Cailan's sword they found simply lying on the ground at the site of the battle. Bodies were all around. Alistair and Eirian had begun the grim work of searching the corpses for any sign of Duncan, while Morrigan perched on top of a wooden palisade keeping an eye out, and Zevran paced the wall of the keep, up where the ground met the stone. Occasionally he would vanish into the misty woods, Eirian's mabari close on his heels, and Alistair would either hear a bloodcurdling scream or nothing at all until they returned.

Eirian was bending over, turning one of the bodies over, when he heard her hiss in pain, swearing softly under her breath.

"What is it?"

"Cut myself. I can't believe the weapons haven't all been—oh. _Oh_\--" Alistair looked over to see her holding the pommel of Cailan's sword, her hand cupped around the very end of the pommel and her other hand held to her mouth as she sucked on the cut she'd gotten. Her face was pale and somber, and she looked down at the ground as if she'd completely forgotten she held the sword of the king of Ferelden.

Eirian looked up at him, sympathy writ large across her face. "Alistair, I-- I think this is Cailan – and Duncan." His focus sharpened and he stepped over to her, crouching down to touch the bodies gingerly. A hank of fair hair on one, and fallen into the ribcage of the other, a vial that matched the one around his neck.

"I think you're right." He straightened and looked around. "Can we afford a pyre here, or should we move them?"

"I...think we should bring them up to where the camp was. We've already cleared it out." Eirian frowned, a line forming between her eyebrows.

"Good idea."

 

**

 

Eirian found Alistair sitting on the far side of the pyre, staring at the flames blankly as he held Cailan's chestplate in his hand. His fingers traced over the dragon on its face mindlessly, over and over again. She didn't think he'd noticed her there until he spoke.

"He stationed me at the Tower of Ishal on purpose, you know." He glanced over at her, then back at the flames. "He wasn't...the best king the land has had, but he thought he was doing the right thing by putting his bastard half-brother somewhere safe in case anything happened. I'm sure of it."

"He knew about you?"

"How could he not? I was a threat to his rule." Alistair shook his head and laughed, bitterly. "Not that he ever saw it that way. To him, I was a perfectly acceptable heir for the throne. You saw him. Talked to him. It shouldn't be a surprise when I say that the only reason he cared that I was a bastard was that it meant I couldn't be raised in the castle with him."

Eirian thought about two wild, laughing boys running down the corridors of the royal palace and didn't say anything. Alistair sighed.

"He was too much of an idealist for Ferelden as she is right now. If Cailan rose from the dead this instant, he would break bread with Loghain himself and try to find out where the misunderstanding had occurred."

"Kind of like you, a bit," Alistair continued after a moment, looking over at Eirian with a sad smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "You've handled things far better than I would have in many cases. I'm sure I'd have gotten us shot by the Dalish, even if I were an elf like you. Your silver tongue has saved us in a lot of tight spots."

Eirian smiled back at Alistair. "The Dalish...I don't think they really even care that I am an elf. I'm not 'like them,' not enough anyway." Now it was her turn to stare at the fire.

"I find that I don't want to be, either. Their ways are so...insular." She ducked her head, settling next to Alistair on the jury-rigged bench.

"I hate the way elves are treated by many humans," she said, trying and failing to keep the quiver of rage out of her tone, "But I don't want to abandon the cities of Ferelden and live off in the forest, on my own, living off what I could hunt and gather with the rest of a clan. It's just not me."

Alistair turned his head to look at her and smiled. Half his face was cast in shadow, but she could see the glimmer of emotion in his eyes nonetheless. "I'm...glad. I don't think I'd like you as much if you were a standoffish Dalish elf who wanted to shoot humans on sight. Come to think of it, _you_ wouldn't like _me_ as much, no doubt."

She leaned against him, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. In companionable silence, they watched the pyre burn down to embers and ash.

 

**

 

When they picked up camp, Eirian found Alistair standing in front of his tent, looking blankly down at his heap of armor. Cailan's armor lay on top of the pile.

"Are you going to wear it?" She wasn't going to force it on him. Wearing your dead half-brother's armor...she fingered the modest gold ring on one finger and bit her lip. It wasn't the same. She wore Nelaros' ring for remembrance.

"I know I should, but I don't want to." He frowned at the armor. "It's good armor, but...Maker, creepy, don't you think? Him being my half-brother and all."

Eirian nodded. "It is, a bit."

"Not to mention, it...would feel like I'm putting on airs. A king's armor should be worn by a king, not by some Grey Warden who happened to come by to give his mentor a proper burial."

"Please," Eirian scoffed lightly, "You're _not_ just 'some Grey Warden,' Alistair."

"Don't you see, though? That just makes it worse! Maric's bastard running around in Cailan's armor, what's _that_ going to make people think?" Alistair's voice was bitter, and Eirian was reminded that he'd spent his entire life with questions of propriety and secrecy running around in his head like this.

"I know." She stepped close and laid a hand on his arm. "You don't have to wear it. Stick with the Effort and Duty set, and we'll pack it away to give to Arl Eamon when we bring him back with Andraste's ashes."

"Sure, since that's a plan destined for success." But Alistair set aside the armor and donned the set he'd been wearing before with steady, easy movements, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders despite the weight of the plate and chain he donned.

 

**

 

Alistair lifted the chestplate over his head and settled the pauldrons on his shoulders, slipping his arms out through the gaps in the mail. Boots, gloves, and armor all fit him well, needing little adjustment. He and Cailan had been much the same in height and build. Before Alistair escaped from the Templars into the Grey Wardens, they'd even had similar hairstyles. When Duncan conscripted him, one of the first things Alistair had done was cut the hair he'd spent so long growing in Templar training.

When he entered the hall, Eirian's head snapped back as if she'd been struck, her eyes filled with despair and love as she looked at him. His heart sank, but he knew his plan was sound and he clung to it like a drowning man to a slick rock in the middle of a raging river.

The only dicey part came when Eirian had to choose those who would accompany her to Fort Drakon, but she picked him out in the same group she'd been taking into battle for days. Wynne stole glances at them both, her face set in worry and disapproval, but she didn't pry into whatever had driven a wedge between the two of them. And the dog, well, the dog knew that whatever it was, Alistair was at fault.

"You have to be king," she said

"You say that like I'm giving you a choice," Alistair murmured in reply, and drank in the sight of her for one last brief moment before launching himself at the archdemon.


End file.
